Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Chapter Three

Dazz

I don’t mind the deepening cold as we trek up the mountain. It’s familiar, like an old friend, crisp and alive, even as it creeps through my boots to my toes and reddens my nose.

“Do you think much has happened since we left?” Buff asks.

It hasn’t been that long, maybe two weeks. Despite the short length of our excursion away from ice country, there’s only one answer to my friend’s question. “Yes,” I say. The only question we asked Wilde before we parted ways was whether our families were safe. Knowing that was enough. Now I wish I’d asked more. Like “How is the new government coping?” and “Has King Goff received his sentence yet?”

“Dazz?” Buff says, snapping me away from my muddled thoughts.

“Yah?”

His only response is a hard-packed snowball to my gut. We’ve reached the snowfields.

I respond in turn, pelting him with a slushball that’s filled with gravel and twigs. And then we’re both whooping, relishing the powdery snow beneath our boots, our legs churning, suddenly zinging with energy, carrying us up the slope. We reach a rise, laughing, panting, elbows on knees.

This is ice country. This is my home. Wilde’s revelation echoes in my ears:

The Glassies spoke of the risk to the Icers too. How now that King Goff has been overthrown they can’t trust the people of ice country either. They said they want to cleanse the lands from the desert to the mountains to the sea.

If the Glassies want to kill us, let them try. We’ll fight for our lives the same way I fought for my sister, Jolie.

They’re forcing us into a war. The Icers too. We’ll have to stand together.

Wilde’s words grate against my teeth. If it’s a war the Glassies want, we’ll give it to them. We will stand. We will fight. We will win.

“Hey, relax,” Buff says, slapping my shoulder. “Let’s get there first, then we’ll think about what has to be done.” As usual, my friend is able to read me like a book. Hiding emotions has never been my thing.

I flash a false smile and continue on up the mountain.

At some point, the snow starts falling, a handful of lazy flakes meandering on a light breeze, painting everything white. We trudge on, the hours falling under the soles of our thick, bearskin boots. I wonder where Skye is, whether she and Wilde and Siena have met up with their spies yet, whether they’re making their way back toward wherever the Tri-Tribes are camped out.

The Unity Alliance. The Tri-Tribes—the Heaters, the Wilde Ones, the Marked—and us, the Icers, joined together as one. Stronger together than apart. Fighting together is our only hope against the Glassies. Now all I have to do is convince the new government. Shouldn’t be too hard, especially considering my friend Yo is one of the new leaders, a member of the freshly created consortium. He represents the Brown District. Funny how quickly things change. Just a few weeks ago Yo was just a bartender, a businessman, a tavern owner. Now he’s helping to shape the future of my people.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice when Buff stops me with an arm. “Wha-what?” I say. Then I see it. The edge of the village, the first houses. The Brown District.

And I can’t stop my feet because they have a mind of their own, and Buff is right behind me, and we’re able to run fast now because the snow is hard-packed and trampled from people’s feet and carts and kids running and playing. Houses blur past on either side, some black and charred, still not repaired from the attack by the Stormer Riders, others being rebuilt by men who are hammering away, clinging to roofs, climbing ladders, bandying together to help one another like people should. A swell of pride fills my chest but I don’t stop—can’t stop—to enjoy it, because I’m so close…so very close.

A familiar shack of a house appears on the right, and I’m not surprised when Buff manages a burst of speed to pass me, barging through the door like a battering ram, his boulder-like frame thudding solidly against the wood. I follow him through.

A half a dozen kids are attacking Buff, leaping on his back, hugging his legs, toppling him to the floor. His brothers and sisters, welcoming him home. Only the eldest, his sister Darcy, stands back from the fray, her hands on her hips. “Buff, if you insist on charging into the house like a Yag, please at least remove your snowy boots.”

But she’s smiling as Buff peels his siblings off him, regaining his feet and kicking off his boots in the process. “Always keeping order in the chaos,” Buff says, embracing her. “What would we do without you?”

“We’d be forced to eat a lot of raw meat,” a voice says to my left. Buff’s father lifts up off the bed he was sitting on, using a wooden crutch to get his balance. His leg is wrapped tightly with thick cloth. “Your sister is every bit as good a cook as your mother was.”

He hobbles over, nods in my direction. “Dazz,” he says.

“Sir,” I say. “Good to see you on your feet.”

“Good to see you home. Both of you.” His voice cracks and I can see the deep lines of worry on his face. And then Buff’s arms are wrapped around his neck and they’re hugging like only a father and a son can hug.

A pang of desire hits me in the chest, causing my heart to speed up. I can’t hug my father, not where he is, but my mother and sister are waiting. Worrying. I can’t linger here any longer. “Go,” Buff’s father says over his son’s shoulder. “And thank you for bringing Buff home to me,” he adds, as if I was his sole protector.

As I exit into the snow, I call back, “He brought me home, too,” and then I’m running up the hill to the next row of houses, where through the light snowfall I can just make out a familiar house—and then I freeze because—

–in front of the house—

–playing in the snow—

–like she didn’t spend a week in bed recovering from a knife wound—

–like I never left her—

–is Jolie, building a man out of snow.

And then, as if sensing my presence, she turns, her nose red and her eyes clear and bright. Her face lights up in a smile that’s bigger and wider than all the countries of the earth. Her legs pump as she runs toward me and as I crouch down, and then they wrap around my waist as she slams into me.

I pick her up and spin her around and around and around as she peppers my face with kisses and says, “I knew it. I knew you’d come back.”

Chapter Four

Adele

I can tell Tristan’s offer has shocked them, because none of them are saying anything. Even Skye’s eyebrows are raised, her mouth slightly open. Gone are the accusations, fired at us with her round words and strange accent.

But does Tristan mean what he said? Can we really offer these people any help? Is it our job, our responsibility? Down below, we’ve got our own problems. The Tri-Realms are shattered, and without Tristan, leaderless. And Roc and Tawni will be wondering where we are, whether we’re dead. And my mother…my mother…

“We’ll come back with an army,” Tristan says, his words cutting into the silence like a knife.

“Come back?” Skye says, and I know from her tone and the pissed off look on her face that coming back is NOT an option…because we won’t be leaving in the first place. “Yer our prisoners. Yer comin’ with us.”

“Like hell,” I say, my sword coming up without me even having to think about it.

As casually as pushing back a strand of hair, Siena fits an arrow and aims it at Tristan, half-smiling. “Skye says you’re coming, so you’re coming.”

“But the air,” I plead, “you said it yourself: The air is bad, toxic. We’ll die if we stay here.” I’m surprised how high-pitched and whiny my voice sounds, even to me. But I’m frustrated, tired—of all the fighting, of the nonstop adventure I’ve been on. We’re supposed to be in the Sun Realm changing things, uniting the people. Who knows what the other generals are doing in our absence. If we stay aboveground…will I ever see my mother and sister again?

“Not right away,” Skye says. “You can cover yer noses and mouths with cloth until we can find somethin’ better.”

There’s still tension in my muscles, but I drop my sword arm. In this case, a bow and arrow trumps a sword, and I’m not about to die now. Not after racing across the Moon Realm, dodging sun dweller soldiers and killing a deranged psychopath named Rivet to free my sister and father. Not after infiltrating the Sun Realm and assassinating the President of the Tri-Realms. I can’t let an arrow from this strange girl be the reason I won’t get to see my sister, Elsey, ever again.

Tristan throws his sword on the ground in front of us, also realizing we’ll have to make our move later. I follow his lead and do the same. We can’t fight arrows with swords. Not now. Maybe later.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“New Wildetown,” Wilde says. “Home of the Tri-Tribes.”

~~~

They cover our faces with thin pieces of cloth, tied tight against the backs of our heads and clamped down by our hats and sunglasses, which they put on over them. I can’t see anything except the glow of red light. We can breathe, but I don’t believe for one second that filtering our breaths through the cloth will protect us from whatever harmful chemicals are in the air.

What the hell is going on? Who are these girls, so young, so rough, so here? With their sun-kissed skin they’re clearly not Dwellers, not the ones from the Sun Realm, the Glassies as they call them. But didn’t everyone else die when the meteor hit hundreds of years ago? That’s what the scientists predicted, that’s what the history books say. But what if they were wrong…?

My hands are strapped behind my back, but my feet are free so I can walk. Big mistake. All I need are my feet, if I can just get the cover off my eyes…

A firm grip on my elbow. I pull away, struggle against it.

“Everything’ll be easier if you don’t fight us,” says a voice. Not the smooth one, not the rough one, the in-between one. The young, skinny girl with the pack full of arrows. Siena.

When she tries to take my elbow the second time, I don’t resist. Not because she told me not to, but because it’s not the time to fight. They’ve got our weapons, we can’t see, our hands are tied. Not the right time.

I stumble on my first step, because there are rocks and lumps under my feet, but Siena holds me up. “Careful,” she says, like she cares whether I fall or not.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice muffled through the cloth that’s over my mouth.

“No talking,” the rough one says. Skye, who would sooner kill us first and ask questions later. Siena’s sister. I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything that’s happening. Is it real? Am I dreaming? Just a few minutes ago Tristan and I were enjoying my first ever glimpse of the earth’s surface, and now…now we’re prisoners of the people who apparently live up here—who have maybe lived up here for a very long time. What? I repeat: What!?

“Tristan?” I say, just to make sure they haven’t separated us, leading us in two different directions.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I swear to the sun goddess if you say one more word I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” I spout. “Abduct us? Take us prisoner? Kill us? Do what you have to do and quit talking about it.”

I tense my muscles, wait for the blow. There are scuffs and scrapes and grunts: sounds of a struggle. And then: “Okay, okay, let go of me.” Skye’s voice.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” says Wilde, and I almost believe her, because her voice is so calm, so warm, almost like a song. But no, it’s not true. Although they stopped Skye from hitting me just now, I can still remember the gleam in Siena’s eyes as she looked down the arrow pointed at my chest. If we threaten them, they’ll kill us in a heartbeat.

Which is why I’ll have to do more than just threaten.

Siena’s hand is back on my elbow and we’re walking again. The rocks and hard ground disappear, and it feels like we’re walking on clothing, on some type of material that sinks down beneath our feet. Everything up here is new and I desperately want to see it, but I can’t, because…damn this covering!

“We’re on the sand dunes,” Siena says, as if reading my mind.

Sand? “Like on the beach?” I ask. Memories of my grandmother’s stories flash amidst the red glow leeching through my blindfold. The beach. The ocean. Waves lapping against the shore. Tiny granules of sand, countless, stretching for miles and miles, as far as the eye can see.

“You’re thinking of water and storm country,” Siena says. “This is fire country. Our sand is much hotter and there ain’t no big water next to it.”

“I’m not thinking of anything,” I say. “I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

I’m hoping saying that will get her to keep talking, to tell me more about what lies above the Tri-Realms, about fire country and water country and storm country, and any other countries there happen to be, but she goes all silent on me.

The sand dunes go up and down, up and down, some bigger than others. I can feel the heat on me like a hot iron, pressing down, burning me. My skin’s not used to it. I wonder if I’ll catch fire. Can the real sun light a person on fire?

Eventually, Siena speaks again. “You swear you ain’t never been to fire country ’fore?”

“Will you believe me if I tell you?”

“I might,” she says. “Skye, she’s…”

“What?” I ask, wondering what her sister has to do with whether I’d lie to her.

“She’s tough and brave and’ll do everything she can to protect our people. You remind me of her.”

Not what I expected her to say. Like, at all. For a moment I’m speechless, dumbfounded, and then I say, “I’m nothing like your sister.” I can’t stop the words from bubbling up, because I mean them. I wouldn’t threaten complete strangers’ lives, wouldn’t take them prisoner, trudge them through lands filled with air that’s toxic to them. No. No way.

Would I?

The doubt creeps in right at the end, when my mouth stops working and my brain kicks in. What if I thought—no, truly believed—that those strangers were the enemy, that they’d try to kill my friends, my family, the ones I love? Then what would I do?

The answer comes as hard as a kick to the gut and as trembling as a wizened old man’s hand: I might’ve attacked first and not asked questions at all. Compared to me, is Skye more forgiving, more reasonable? Am I more like her than she is like me?

“Think what you want,” Siena says. “But don’t judge Skye for trying to protect us the only way she knows how.”

Chapter Five

Siena

The girl, Adele, goes quiet after that. I keep leading her, on and on, ’cross the desert. And further still, even as the sun turns the red sky purple and orange and sends a bright green flash overhead as it sinks below the horizon.

The sun goddess sleeps, and still we march on in silence.

If Adele won’t talk to me, then I’ll talk to someone else. “Hey, Skye. You miss Dazz yet?” I ask. It’s not a real question, just one of those ones you use to get your fingers under someone’s skin, to get a rise out of ’em. It works.

“Dazz? Scorch, Siena, I tol’ you a thousand times, he’s just a guy,” Skye says. That’s the rise I was talking ’bout. I snicker.

“But you like kissing him,” I say, prodding with my words.

“So?”

“And he makes you laugh like a little Totter.”

“He does not!” Finally Skye looks at me, and if looks could kill…well, I’d be deader’n a two ton tug after the last Hunt of the year. But I’m already laughing, and evidently Wilde’s amused too, ’cause her giggle escapes her lips, sounding as light and tinkly as rain on rocks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I ’spect your head to be sitting just ’bout over your heels right now. And that’s all ’cause of Dazz.”

“You take it back, baby sister, or I’ll take it back with these two fists of mine, I swear it on the moon goddess shining down on us right now.”

Her words make me pause, not ’cause I’m afraid of her hitting me—I know she won’t—but ’cause I crane my head back to look at the moon goddess, who’s hanging high in the sky, almost directly overhead. She’s full and bright and...is she smiling?

“Hulloooooo up there!” I shout.

Finally I get a laugh out of Skye. “Sun goddess, Siena. Sometimes I swear you’ve got tug for brains,” she says, which only makes me laugh more, ’cause it sounds like something I would say.

Still tugging Adele with one hand, still staring up at the moon, I say, “’Gardless of my brain constitution, it don’t change the fact that you luuuurve Dazz.”

And then Skye’s chasing me and I’m forgetting myself and releasing Adele’s arm and taking off down the dune we’ve just crested, laughing and laughing and laughing, my feet squishing in the trail of sand lit by the bright, full moon.

And, of course—of course—Skye catches me, ’cause she’s stronger and faster and bigger. She tackles me to the ground, pins me there, and shoves my face in the sand. “Take it back,” she says, and when I won’t, she sprinkles sand in my mouth, which is gaping ’cause I’m still laughing.

I think the realization hits us at the exact same time—maybe ’cause we’re sisters and we both have tug for brains—and it’s only when we hear Wilde’s shout that we scamper to our feet and look back up the sandy hill.

Somehow, some way, Adele’s got her hands out in front of her and she’s taking off her blindfold, her eyes filled with action. I’m already drawing my bow and Skye’s got her sword out, but we’re both frozen ’cause Adele’s charging Wilde, who’s holding Tristan with one hand and a sword in t’other, and when she swings at Adele, she ducks under it and kicks low and hard, sweeping Wilde’s legs out from under her. Down she goes, dropping her sword in the process. Then, ’fore you can say “spicy ’zard soup,” Adele’s got Wilde’s sword and has freed her hands and Tristan’s, and stuck the tip of it into the crook of Wilde’s neck.

“Oops,” I say, and Skye just glares at me, but I can tell she’s not madder at me’n she is at herself.

Maybe not even tug for brains. Maybe nothing for brains. I almost want to rap on my skull with my knuckles and listen to whether it sounds hollow. Stupid, wooloo desert boredom’ll get you every time.

That’s when I hear a worse sound’n the hollow echo in my own head: A snarl, raw and excited and close. A Cotee snarl.

~~~

The moment Wilde and Adele and Tristan come barreling down the hill, I take aim upwards. Not to shoot either of our pale-faced prisoners, but to defend us against the snapping, snarling beasts that are surely ’bout to come over that hill.

I’m not scared; not at all. Five of us against even a large pack of Cotees is doable. I’m ready.

But when Wilde reaches the bottom and I see her face painted yellow by the moonlight, I know we’re in trouble. “Killers,” she says, her face awash with fear, her breaths coming out in ragged heaves. Wilde doesn’t scare easy. None of us do. But that one word—Killers—would strike fear in even the bravest of warriors.

I’ve lived in fire country my whole life, plenty long enough to know that the bark I heard was a Cotee. So not just Cotees—Cotees and Killers. Great. We survive the attack from the Glassies, the whims of a mad king, and the brutality of a power-hungry admiral, all to die at the razor-clawed paws of furry wolf-like killing machines?

Burn that. I’ll be seared if I’ll die now, not when my freshly rescued sister, Jade, is waiting for us back at New Wildetown. Not when Circ is waiting for me.

“How many?” Skye says, her voice firm.

“At least five Cotees, but they’re running from maybe three Killers,” Wilde says.

“What the hell is a Killer?” Adele asks, but her stricken face tells me she saw ’em.

“A big animal,” Skye says. “Get ready.”

Steady, steady, I keep my pointer trained on the crest of the hill. ’Side me, I see Skye take out her second blade, hand it to Wilde, feel her tug my short knife out of its loop. She gives it to Tristan. Now’s not the time for prisoners, for human enemies. We’re in a fight for our lives.

The first Cotee flies over the dune, its four legs moving so fast they’re barely touching the sand. Its mouth is hanging open, tongue lolling side to side, eyes wild and wide. It’s running for its life. I ignore it, let it come down unscathed. The Cotee won’t be stopping to take a snap at us, not when the jaws of death are hot on its tail.

A second Cotee, a third. A pathetic yelp shatters the night. There are no longer five Cotees coming our way.

Just as the first and fastest Cotee is racing ’tween us like we’re not even here, like we’re no more’n inanimate pricklers standing watch in the desert, the fourth animal soars over the dune in a final, desperate attempt to save itself. A shadow looms behind it, seeming to absorb the moonlight into its dark fur. Massive jaws come crashing down on the Cotee’s neck and the sickening crunch of bones rolls down the hill.

“Oh my God,” Adele whispers, as the Killer lands on top of the Cotee, twisting its head sharply to snap the animal’s neck. Blood oozes from its white fangs, which glisten under the watchful eye of the moon goddess, who I doubt is still smiling.

I can’t be frozen, but I am, shocked by the violence I’ve just witnessed. The last time I faced off against a Killer it was to protect Circ, and in the end, he protected me more’n I did him.

But that was then, and this is now, and I’m a different person. Stronger, more confident. So even as Skye is screaming, “Shoot, Siena! Shoot!” I’m already loosing an arrow, watching it fly straight and true, right into the Killer’s eye.

It roars, a mind-rending scream that’s filled with anger and pain and maybe surprise, too, like “How could a pathetic, skinny excuse for a human defeat me?” And then it falls, toppling onto its side, skidding down the hill, sending piles of sand rolling down in front of it.

The Killer comes to rest at my feet, as big as five Cotees, black liquid dribbling from its eye. Deader’n…well, just dead, okay? I’m so shocked that I’m plumb out of silly comparisons. I killed a Killer.

One down.

Just as I nock another pointer and raise my bow to the top of the hill, t’other two Killers come charging over the rise. Not distracted by a Cotee—t’other three Cotees are long past us, secure in their knowledge that the Killers’ll go for the tasty humans first—they come right at us, teeth snapping, three-inch-long claws out and ready to tear, to rip, to end.

I shoot.

One of the Killers—the one on the right—twitches slightly as my arrow slams into its shoulder, but it keeps on coming. I reload, aim, shoot again. The Killer is ready this time, cutting hard to the side, my pointer sailing over its head, which is what I was aiming at.

It’s right on top of me, too close to shoot again. No choice but to—

I dive hard to the ground, rolling frantically away, feeling the heavy whoosh of air and sensation of hundreds of pounds of muscle and bone and fur fly past me.

The beast’s growl confirms that it missed its mark. I snap to my feet, nock another pointer, release. The shadow snarls, paws at the feathers sticking from it neck. Breaks the pointer in half. Charges.

And then Skye’s there, knocking me aside, slashing hard with her sword. The warm splatter of blood sprays my face as I fall to the still-hot sand.

When I push to my feet, all I see is black fur, matted and wet, and blood, pooling at my feet. A groan as Skye shoves the beast off of her. A growl reminds me that it’s not over—not by a longshot.

The third Killer is upon us, leaping at Wilde even as she jams her sword upward. The monstrous creature paws aside the sword and knocks her to the ground, landing hard on top of her, snarling and snapping. Oh sun goddess, no. Not Wilde. No, no!

But then:

Tristan plows into the Killer, shoulder first, bashing it away from Wilde, simultaneously jamming his blade—my knife—into its side. They roll end over end, t’gether, like they’re one animal, a strange mix of fur and flesh and paws and hands. When they stop, the Killer—knife handle protruding from its hide—slashes at Tristan with dagger-like claws, swatting him aside like a pesky desert fly.

I realize I’ve got my bow raised, a pointer fitted, almost subconsciously, trying to get an angle on the Killer, which is back on its feet, sorta behind the edge of the dune, sorta behind Wilde’s unmoving body.

Adele yells, charges, moving quickly and gracefully, swinging the blade she stole from Wilde somewhat wildly, like she’s used one ’fore, but’s still trying to get the hang of it. She leaps and the Killer does the same, lunging at her ’fore she can get enough strength behind her stab. It’s got her ’round the waist, in its jaws, picking her up and crushing her to the ground, her sword skittering away like a skipped stone.

She’s as good as dead, but still I can’t shoot, ’cause what if she’s alive and I hit her? But I don’t hafta shoot, don’t hafta save the day, ’cause that’s what Skye does. That’s all she ever does.

And even as I think it, Skye’s there, jamming her own blade into the Killer, missing its head ’cause it twists away, but getting it in the upper body, just below its neck. The Killer, even in the throes of death, two weapons sticking from its fur, keeps on kicking, raking its claws first ’cross Skye’s cheek and then on her shoulder, throwing her back with the force of the blows.

Impossibly, it’s on its feet again, still full of life, standing over Adele’s dead body, growling at Skye, who’s now weaponless, on her back. I loose a pointer, Skye’s last hope, which slams into the beast’s hip, but all I draw is an angry snarl.

The Killer leans back on its haunches, preparing to leap, to finish off my sister with its last living breath. It’s over. The fight, the part of my life that’s worth living, everything.

And then a hand moves beneath the beast. Just a flash of skin and the glint of metal as Adele pulls Tristan’s knife—my knife—from the Killer’s flesh. The animal’s head cocks to the side, such a human expression, as if it’s confused at what it’s feeling beneath it, and then its eyes widen and roll back as the tip of the weapon emerges from the crown of its head.

It falls, heavy and lifeless and nothing more’n a sack of flesh and bones and blood.

Skye saved Adele.

Adele saved Skye.

Who woulda thought it?